


ex opere operato

by miscellanium



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Character Study, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Power Dynamics, Priests, Secret Crush, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/miscellanium
Summary: When he became head of Section 13 (which he would, he had no doubts, if God had a plan then this must be it) Anderson's reins would be handed over to him, the unseen bonds of authority taut like leather leads in his gloved hands. To be able to make such a powerful figure kneel before him the way he knelt for Communion, those fingers brushing his lips—[maxwell longs to be touched.]
Relationships: Alexander Anderson/Enrico Maxwell
Kudos: 10





	ex opere operato

He couldn't stop thinking about Anderson's hands. They'd touched his head, only in passing, but the weight of those loving hands—they were loving, he knew this, because Anderson had told him so.

"Do you love me, teacher?"

"Of course. I love you like God who loves all his children."

Even after two years he had trouble seeing Anderson as a father the way the other kids did. Of course, he didn't need one. His real father had left him here, his mother acquiescing. It didn't matter because he'd be a Father too one day, and more. He'd pay back his wrongs a hundredfold, write his victory letter in blood, whatever it took. All he needed was for someone to believe in him.

"Do you believe in me, teacher?"

"Of course. All of us have potential in the eyes of the Lord."

Not good enough. He bent his head to his studies, applying himself with a ferocity that his peers couldn't match. He'd be the best. He'd get Anderson to call him by his name.

"Did I do well, teacher?"

"Very impressive, Enrico. Keep up the good work."

Those hands—the touch had been light but he could feel the warmth, the heaviness of those hands massive on his young head. He went to bed that night still thinking about Anderson's touch, about the power hidden beneath that rough skin. He'd caught glimpses of it sometimes: Anderson's green eyes bright with excitement when he lectured on past Crusades, his teeth flashing sharp as he demonstrated sword-fighting moves during physical education, his muscles shifting under the black clerical shirt as he bent to touch Maxwell on the head. It felt as though his scalp was burning from it, his skin hypersensitive to the memory of being touched for the first time in too long. For the first time since he'd arrived. To be touched, to be held—he would get Anderson to hold him. He'd seen Anderson do it to Yumiko. Anderson would sweep her up into a hug, lifting her off the floor and making her laugh. What had she done to deserve it?

To be hugged by Anderson looked as though it felt like.... He couldn't put words to it. To be enveloped like that, to feel another's skin against his own, stubble against his cheek—the thought of it set the back of his neck tingling.

On their next trip to Vatican City Anderson brought them before Michaelangeo's _Pieta_. He wasn't much for the arts; he could appreciate them but he couldn't talk about them. Warfare came more easily. So he led them through the basilica, Yumiko holding onto the back of his cassock while Heinkel trotted alongside her. Maxwell walked besides him, chest proud, an equal though he barely reached Anderson's hips. Anderson towered above the sculpture, greater than Mary and Jesus Himself, and Maxwell knew there was a truth here.

This time he went to bed still thinking about that show of tenderness, the dying man cradled, the way Anderson looked at him when he asked why a mother would hold her son like that.

"Love," Anderson had said after a long moment, returning his gaze to the statue.

"Have you ever held anyone like that?"

Maxwell didn't get an answer to his question. Anderson had looked at his watch and rushed them back to the hotel, where they were told to behave and locked in while he went off to a meeting. Next time Maxwell could go along, he'd been promised, because his noble background put him in line for leadership despite everything. Iscariot was still bound by tradition, however loosely.

He laid on the narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling. People would love him when he could lead them. When he became head of Section 13 (which he would, he had no doubts, if God had a plan then this must be it) Anderson's reins would be handed over to him, the unseen bonds of authority taut like leather leads in his gloved hands. To be able to make such a powerful figure kneel before him the way he knelt for Communion, those fingers brushing his lips—

It was a sin, of course, but what difference would another sin make? Believers yet unbelievers, that's what Anderson always said. Maxwell turned his head to see Heinkel and Yumiko napping on the couch with the TV still on. The volume was low but still enough to mask the sound of their breathing. He couldn't make out what programme was playing and it didn't matter, there was a man's voice deep and accented and that was enough. He slipped a hand down his pants.

When children at the orphanage started entering puberty the adults would go over lessons of sexual development in a cursory manner, addressing only the most important points, emphasizing that to touch oneself should only be part of one's marital duties and to do otherwise would lead to madness, deformity, and damnation. But what was damnation to Iscariot? So in the bathroom, in the shower, with Anderson outside the closed door, he would prove that orgasm was no worse than murder. Absolute obedience does not foster leadership, or he wouldn't have been abandoned after doing everything he thought his parents wanted. But if he were to vault himself over the heads of others he had to smile and nod, speak agreement only as much as he needed to. The Vatican looked the other way for Section 13's sake and Section 13 did the same with its operatives for the Vatican's sake. God also would look the other way if you were acting in his name. Was this not the lesson of the Crusades? Was it not in the agent but in the work performed that one would find grace?

His body was a battlefield and Iscariot did not care. So he felt no qualms about taking hold of himself, about slipping the fingers of his other hand inside both entrances—

Maxwell knew that if the other two kids woke they too would avert their eyes. Who would their superiors believe? And one day he would be the superior, he'd be in charge and nobody could tell him no— Oh—he arched his back— If Anderson found him like this what would happen? Would he be flogged? Held by the neck 'til he repented and promised not to be caught again? Just one of Anderson's hands could fit around his entire neck— He might return from the meeting any moment now and open the door to see Maxwell on the hotel bed with his pants halfway down, white briefs pulled just past his crotch, one hand on his clit and the other spreading himself open just for the eyes of his Father—

He came hard, curled up on his side and shaking until he could breathe again.

By the time Anderson opened the door, treats from a pastry vendor under one arm, he was sitting with Heinkel and Yumiko on the couch with his hair brushed and hands folded responsibly in his lap. The drive back to the orphanage was quiet, Anderson focusing on navigating the dark rural roads and the kids looking out the windows at the dusk-faded fields and horses galloping over the hills.

Maxwell woke the next morning with the memory of Anderson's expression before the _Pieta_ lingering from his dreams.

"You didn't answer my question yesterday."

"Which question?" Anderson crouched down, his scar tugging his smile slightly askew. They were between lessons and it was his turn to monitor the kids running around outside in the balmy weather, but Maxwell knew he always had time for him.

"Have you ever held anyone in your arms?"

"A long time ago."

"Who was it?"

Anderson didn't look away this time. "Someone important to me. She's in heaven now."

"I'm important to you, aren't I, teacher?"

"Yes, Enrico. I can tell God has great things in store for you."

Maxwell smiled but he was not quite satisfied. "If I'm important to you, then show me."

Anderson looked at him, gentle expression unchanged. "Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed."

He would get Anderson to show him, to let him thrust a finger inside and be known. He would get Anderson to hold him, cradle him, thin cotton of those gloves soft on his bare thighs—

Suddenly Maxwell was embraced, large hands holding him tight against a warm body.

Anderson's breath was quiet, his voice low. "Be at peace, Enrico." He stood up and put his hands on Maxwell's shoulders. "As long as I am with you God will be with you. As long as God is with you I will be with you." 

That power so close to him, enveloping him; someday this would be his to control, he knew it, and he'd never have to ask again. This taste of what he could have, while it set his skin thrumming, was not quite good enough. It needed to be more and he would get it. Maxwell promised himself that someday Anderson would hold him the same way Mary held her son that was not her son but the Son of the world. He would be remembered by everyone, he would be cherished by everyone, and above all his body would be holy in Anderson's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are always much appreciated.


End file.
